A Likely Story
by carpetfibers
Summary: A neat ending doesn't always mean happily ever after; sometimes, what happily ever after needs is a new beginning. HG/GW
1. one

_**A/N: **I know, I know. I have two other stories begging for completion. I promise they haven't been dropped. This has just sort of written itself the past couple of weeks. I'm about six chapters in; I imagine it'll be no more than ten. Expect a chapter every one to two weeks after this. As always, please read and review._

_**Disclaimer**: I own nothing; it's all JKR's.  
_

**A Likely Story**

**one**

She waited until the bathroom had emptied completely before leaving the stall and facing the mirror. The aria had ruined her eye make-up, the runny mascara cloaking her eyelids in a smear of black. She dabbed at her lashes, her eyes filling unwillingly with yet more tears as that last plaintive note struck through her memory again. She couldn't remember the last time an opera had inspired anything in her other than boredom and irritation. She disliked the superficial affectation these outings forced: the necessity of make-up and fine dress robes, too-tall heels and an over-abundance of hair straightener. She'd rather be at home, in comfortable jeans and a flannel, her feet warm from the radiator and her hands busy with a new book.

But Ron aspired to more than just wealth. It wasn't enough that he was a Quidditch success; it wasn't enough that he was a Pureblood wizard. He wanted prestige and history; he wanted class and stature. He seemed to think that attending the opera and owning a villa in Italy would provide him with that.

She thought it made him look desperate and silly.

Her face stared back at her, rubbed clean of the make-up. An unhappiness sat near her lips, a dip to the curve that felt weighted. She tried smiling, willing her eyes to brighten and her cheeks to dimple; the expression looked forced, and tiredly, she sighed. She wished they could go back six years, to when she worked two part-time jobs and he was still in the half leagues, his uniform and pads all second-hand and patched with time and wear. It was busy then, and hard, but she remembered being happy, a joyful, simple happiness that inspired her and filled her.

Now when she stood in the house they shared, her feet hesitant to step too harshly and damage the tile, she missed the brittle laminate of their first apartment, with its temperamental water heater and stubborn windows. She missed dinners of cereal, and breakfasts of leftover take-out. She missed--

The bathroom door barreled open.

"I can't believe you just up and talked to him! Did he really sign it for you?"

"Ruined my best lipstick, but yes." The two girls huddled over a napkin clearly inscribed with an all-too familiar signature. Hermione bit back another sigh, and tried to sneak past them, her hair a convenient curtain. The taller of the two, a bottle-blonde, stopped her three steps from the door.

"I didn't see that awful Granger girl near him for once. You'd think he go in for an upgrade by now." The girl flipped her unnatural blonde hair twice for good affect, her friend nodding emphatically all the while.

Hermione disappeared through the door, missing, more than anything else, the relative anonymity she once had.

**~*~**

His _companion_, as his mother always liked to designate them, was a leggy brunette with a name that sounded like some sort of dessert. He hadn't paid attention during the shared introductions, too distracted by the lack of dress she'd thrown on. Not exactly proper for a fun, family outing at the opera, but since he was attending against his will, he wasn't about to go out of his way to ensure his _companion_ was dressed appropriately. He'd need something to keep him occupied during the three and a half hours of pure tedium.

The box seats were regularly reserved for the Weasleys now, what with the generous donation handed the opera company by his younger brother. It still irked him that Charlie had gone along with the idea as well, and by extension, he'd been roped into attending the monthly outings. He liked to think that Fred would have-- he shook his head, unwilling to allow his already troubled mind to delve into the maudlin. It was bad enough that if not for his girl-of-the-month, he'd never leave the lobby bar with its twenty-eight pages of reds, whites, and everything in between.

He drank slowly now from one such glass, letting the liquid linger over his tongue, his blue eyes watchful of the overly ornate mounted clock that adorned the wall. The intermission was a generous five minutes over, and he knew if left unattended long enough, his mother would ramble down and have at him. One would think, at his age, the days of being harassed into action by a mother would be long over. Sadly, the very opposite was true, and he thanked all that was holy and omnipotent that he'd moved out before Ron hit the big time.

Not that his own personal success was any less remarkable, just less substantial. Between the sponsor deals, commercial developments, and the new subterranean resort complex Ron was backing over in Asia somewhere, Ron had reached permanent celebrity status; he had his fingers in everything. Personally, George had better pursuits for his energies than playing Mr. Wizard Weekly for forty-three weeks and counting. And presently, he planned on playing some of those very energies out on the very bare, and very enticing shoulders of his _companion_.

Even if her name was something ridiculous like Tiramisu.

**~*~**

She took her seat carefully, mindful of the potential wrinkles that might ruin her dress robes for a future occasion. Not that Ron would allow her to wear the same thing twice, no matter how much she might fuss about it. There had been a time when she welcomed a solid row with him, the make-up afterward more than evening out whatever negative energies might have been expended. Their bickering had always been the good-natured sort, the kind of word-trade that only the best of friends, the dearest of partners dealt in. He was too busy now for that sort of diversion; everything was too serious. He was either at the Floo, or attached to his mobile. Even when she called it, teasingly, by its once name, _fellytone, _no laughter followed, no lazy smile showing crooked teeth.

None of the little things that she loved about him.

"We're going to _The Repast _afterward," he told her, his voice low and his chin inclined. He settled back into his seat in the row behind her, leaving no time to solicit her opinion, whether she approved or disapproved.

She nodded her agreement, not caring enough about the choice in restaurant to force an actual discussion, and removed the shawl that covered her shoulders. In the darkness, the cold air cloaked her skin, sending goosebumps down her throat and over her arms. She relished the chill, enjoying the small rebellion. It amused her how old-fashioned Ron could be, and he disliked it when her clothes dared to show some of her actual shape and figure. He'd never made the mistake of trying to forbid her from dressing as she wanted, but his reluctant compliments were enough to influence her clothing choices nevertheless.

When they had first graduated and moved into their tiny, one-bedroom apartment, she had introduced him to the afternoon matinée, with its half-off ticket prices and tenth-run films. They would find seats in the far back, clothed in the darkness, their hands free to roam, their mouths free to search. Their giggles and hushed breathing would vanish into the film's dialogue, and not even the askance glances thrown their way afterward would discourage a repeat the next Sunday. Idly, Hermione wondered what he would do if she were to suddenly claim the seat beside him, and her hand were to wander to the left, moving _just so_--

The aria was still too fresh in her emotions to dare that probable rejection.

**~*~ **

He fumbled in the darkness, not daring to illuminate the small space with his wand. He didn't think the two glasses of wine he'd managed to down during the intermission were sufficient enough to blame on to avoid the inescapable verbal lashing he'd receive from both his mother and sister should the light distract the lead soprano from her warbling. He rather thought any halt to that noise would be an improvement, but his opinion was rarely requested during the post-opera meals. At least Hermione would laugh at his jokes, but she was usually so depressed the sound barely passed the half-hearted range.

Hardly an accomplishment for a joke shop owner and inventor extraordinaire.

The stage brightened long enough for him to make out the beckoning paleness of his date's _oh-so-invitingly-bare _shoulders. His seat had been stolen away from him, and reluctantly, he sat behind her, ignoring the shushing sound that came from his left. He stared at her back, deciding that he was pleased with the intermission-decision to let down her hair. The girl had a thin sort of face and all those pins and such holding up her hair did little to fill it. He liked his girls to have a bit of flesh to them, and she was a bit on the skeletal side. Didn't detract entirely from her appeal, plainly, as he'd brought her along. Too bad the darkness hid her legs from his prime view-point; from his position, if he straightened his posture, he could have caught the break in her knees and the red of her toe-nails.

The gloom masked her from his gaze, and reluctantly, he slipped back down to his usual seated sprawl. The soprano was joined by a chorus of other warblers, and George tried to guess at the time remaining. He was regretting his lack of courage in the lobby; anything would have been better than another hour of _this_. His date shivered and her shoulders trembled delicately; he decided that perhaps his momentary weakness wasn't entirely a loss. He glanced once to his left; Ron was apparently occupied with the stage below. How someone with as base an interest level as his younger brother's could also enjoy the opera was beyond his understanding. A glance to his right secured that the darkness gave him sufficient camouflage for his current intentions; still, he paused the brief seconds necessary to mutely run off the notice-me-not charm.

Carefully, he traced the tip of his finger along her neck, slinking past the hollow of her throat and down to the slight plump of flesh that rose above the dress's bodice. Her shiver forced an amused grin to flash in the darkness. Keeping his eyes on the curve of her jaw, he lowered his lips to that expanse of smooth skin, and lingered there, tasting and dipping, his chest swelling with satisfaction that his ministration should evoke such a drastic response. The girl was positively shaking, even as her neck inclined to provide him with yet more canvass to work with, and with his mouth, still curved, he made his way slowly up that generous arch, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume. The scent, a flowery mix, tickled at his nose, a distant familiarity to it buzzing at the back of his brain.

He paused, revelation dawning, and nearly fell from his chair in his immediate reaction to pull back, to step away from the shoulders and throat that most definitely did not belong to his _companion_. Caring not a whit for his mother's future rapprochements, George fled from the box, wanting only to get away. He stumbled into the open air of the empty corridor, the back of his hand pressed to his lips, and his face achingly hot. The wallpaper glared at him, accusingly, as if knowing of his-- Unintentional, he insisted silently, unintentional!-- misdeed.

Merlin help him . . . he inhaled slowly, willing his heartbeat to slow and his body to reclaim itself. Of all the people to mistakenly manhandle, he'd chosen the one female he'd long since trained himself to think of as anything but. She was taken property-- and Circe help him if she ever heard him refer to _her _as _property_-- she was off the market, forever. Under no circumstances was she ever to be a consideration.

Ever.

But George couldn't erase the lingering sensation on his lips. Her perfume, some vague concoction of drowned flowers, a cheap fragrance she probably wore out of habit, rested at the forefront of his memory, niggling and bothering in a way that no amount of rubbing at his nose could lessen. Her hair, a variance on the same scent, chased from behind as well, and even in the manufactured air of the hallway, he couldn't be rid of it.

His forehead rested against the pebbled wallpaper, its texture cooling his too warm skin, and his blue eyes stared at the floor, the black of his shoes a stain against the etched marble. He would simply have to forget and avoid her in the meantime. Once he could box her back away into the compartment labeled, 'Do Not Touch, Do Not Consider,' he'd be just fine. It was an unintentional slip, and hopefully, she would have no idea that it was his lips that had kissed her, his hands on her skin.

The theater doors opened, and the hall was flooded with the exiting patrons. Still braced against the wall, George steadied himself and waited, willing that she would emerge completely ignorant of his involvement. First his mother and father, behind them his sister and Harry. Bill and Fleur next with Charlie on course for the closest usher handing out post-program favors, and then Ron-- he avoided his younger brother's eyes, guilt rising to join the rest of his emotions; she was attached at his arm, her cheeks flushed and her shawl hanging from her wrist. Her shoulders stood nakedly in the full light of the corridor, and George forced himself to exhale twice, slowly.

She smiled, the expression one of a quiet, private sort of pleasure, and he watched as she traced the same stretch of skin he had minutes earlier with the tips of her fingers. She walked past him, no pause of embarrassment or awkwardness belying any potential awareness she might have of his culpability. She walked past him, her head inclined away from him and toward his brother's. She walked past him, and the disappointment rankled.

"Where were you?" His _companion _sounded annoyed.

"At the bar." George pushed off from the wall, ignoring the expectant hand dangled his way. "You'll find your own way from here then, right?"

He ignored the outraged reply as well. His gaze, attention, and completely unwilling self were focused on a single form in the hall's crowd. Merlin help him. . . Hermione Granger needed to return to her box of non-sexual, of non-gender, of invisibility. She was his brother's girl, she was his brother's true love, always and forever, happily ever after, and all that.

And he, George Weasley, was most definitely not a consideration.

**one end**


	2. two

_**A/N: **__Thanks for the early support! Here's chapter two._

_**Disclaimer: **__It's all JKR's; I own nothing__**.**_

**A Likely Story**

**two**

She walked carefully between the rows of desks, her amused smile hidden behind the curl of her palm. The group of eight and nine year olds always protested her weekly multiplication speed drills, but once the clock started, they were bent, nose to desk, in eager concentration. The weekly prize of ice cream from Fortesque's always ensured sincere participation. It was a small class, when compared to the normal Muggle sizes, only eleven students altogether, and an even mix between Purebloods and otherwise. Hermione was still lobbying for earlier recognition of Muggle-borns, so as to include them with the primary education. So much of the childhood-learned prejudices could be dispelled if the right sort of socializing occurred.

She knew patience was necessary; the Ministry-offered primary education program was only two years old, and her school was only one of nine that were currently running in the United Kingdom. She was lucky enough to have been invited to join the small group of teachers running the program; her ultimate goals were years away still.

She paused near one of the western windows, the white-washed stretch of uncared-for grass and hill winding far into the horizon. If she squinted, or applied the appropriate charm, she could see the faint outline of Ottery St. Catchpole's meandering township; if she gave it enough imagination, she could see the Burrow as well, its crookedly impossible shape beckoning with its warmth.

People-- and by people, she really only meant _Ron_-- had accused her of loving the Weasley family more so than any one individual from it. And while she denied it when confronted, there was a small amount of truth to the accusation. She did love the Weasley family. She loved their largeness and chaos; it clashed so violently with the structure and order and dental precision of her own family, with their five year plans and neatly trimmed rose trees. The Weasleys inspired her to spontaneity, a difficult thing for her. The verbal fistfights over meals, the constant jabs and insults-- as much as it often made her uncomfortable, she envied the lightness and ease that they shared. There was an underlying assurity that no matter the barb thrown, or the snide remark, family was family was family.

Ron preferred the exclusiveness of her childhood, and whenever he spoke of children, he always spoke in the singular. She tried not to let this bother her too much. The subsequent arguments lacked that early fire she enjoyed, and Ron being the _reasonable_ one was the one straw she'd rather not take on.

"Miss, please, I'm finished."

The first of her students to complete his sheet beamed expectantly from his seat, his upraised hand fighting hard to not wiggle too much in his excitement. The rest of the class halted in their scratching, ten faces expectant and hopeful for a mistake, one single mistake that would give them a chance yet for the ice cream outing.

Hermione fixed her expression into one of stoic repose, her eyes working their way down the five columns and through the ten rows. Ever so slowly, she removed the quill tucked into her pocket, its red-inked tip ever ready to apply the congratulatory marks or the 'x' that would send the remaining contenders back into their hurried flurry.

Her lips quirked. "Class, congratulate Michael on his third week in a row of Fortesque's."

The class groaned, papers were shoved, and Michael Cowell, eight years old and of under-average height, silently reminded himself that ice cream with his pretty teacher was plenty enough of a reason to spend three hours every week on his sums.

**~*~**

George was tired. Eye-burning, stomach-aching, ear-tingling tired. Even his bones felt worn-out. He had no one to blame for it but himself. The daily ritual, one he had enforced for over a month, involved late night pub diving, the tracking down of a potentially willing female, and then an eventual verbal brawl when she turned out to be too tall, or too short, or too blonde, or too anything that made her impossible to consider without another someone coming to mind.

Another someone he was resolutely adamant in spurning in every way possible.

It didn't help that she continued to take one of her school sprogs to Fortesque's every Friday at two o'clock. It didn't help that she always prefaced the ice cream with a quick jaunt into his shop, the ten minutes involved invariably including an attempt at conversation with him. George tried to avoid working the front end on Fridays. Or so he liked to tell himself. Just as assuredly as her hair would curl over her brow, he would find himself near the counter, close enough to smell her perfume and re-visit the tiny mole located below her left ear.

He made a point to be unpleasant, but she seemed to think it humorous. He had thought her smarter than that, but, he reminded himself, she had chosen his younger brother for her partner in life and happiness. He hated that his mind always made note to include mention that this partnering was still un-officiated, and no ring adorned her finger, no binding cloth on her wrist.

She was in blue today, her teaching robes out of sight and far from his mind, their shapelessness a forever dislike of his. Her cheeks were reddened by the outside heat, and the boy whose hand she held was quickly released for a thorough inspection of the store's many wares. His heart quickened from her immediate proximity, and her voice, uttering the most mundane of greetings, made his blood thrill.

"Hullo George. How are you?"

"Busy." He applied himself to re-organizing a pile of junk wands, the task as unnecessary as it was every Friday when she stopped in. Despite his down-turned regard, his eyes caught the movement of her fingernails over the counter-top. An ink smudge stained a crease in her palm.

"That's good, I imagine. For a store to be busy that is. Better than it being empty and without buyers, right?" She paused for a reply that he purposely withheld. His hands paused only slightly at her low sigh. "Lord, I envy you this sometimes, you know." Her palm lifted to briefly gesture to the store as a whole. "It's so completely and exclusively yours, this wonderfully tangible demonstration of your ability and talent."

He tried for disinterest, but the obvious discouragement in her lips forced him to respond. "Your students do well; that's something, too."

The laugh was a false one, and her fingers returned to their light strumming of the counter. "Yes, they do, and that is something. But I've always liked physical results. Hogwarts sort of instills that behavior, that expectation of a direct and immediate manifestation. Either the spell succeeded, or it didn't. With these little ones, it's all guesses and hopes."

She mistook his silence as misunderstanding and continued on, her student forgotten in the moment. "Well, let's take Quidditch: Imagine that all of the balls-- the quaffles and bludgers and the snitch-- were invisible, and it took a decade before you learned whether all that effort and energy on the field actually resulted in a win. It'd drive you mad; it'd drive anyone mad. No one would want to play or sit in on a match."

He had understood her meaning the first time, and his annoyance piqued. He remembered finding this same trait of hers, her insatiable need to talk, words all but exploding from her lips, bothering him during meals in the Great Hall and on the rare evening when he shuffled into the common room. "I got it the first time, Granger," he told her.

She stared, eyes widening for a scarce second, and then she folded into herself, arms wrapped around her waist and mouth in a terse smile. "Sorry. It's a bad habit of mine."

He didn't disagree and kept silent as she wandered toward the shelves in search of her student. He watched as she nearly knocked over a barrel of _Mustache Mints_ and was then startled by a particularly vocal jarvey. Her cheeks were red again by the time she made it to the exit, her student in reluctant yet cheerful tow. She was halfway through the door when his voice freed itself from his throat.

"Granger, I didn't mean to--"

She cut him off with a shake of her head, her braid all but undoing itself in the short gesture. "It's okay, George. I'll see you Sunday."

And as much as he tried to push the expectation from his mind, as much as he wished the feeling from his chest, his heart still beat faster and his thoughts still raced when he realized that only two days separated him from his next view of her.

**two end  
**


	3. three

_**A/N:** Thanks for all of the continued support. Another chapter next week. More notes available at the end._

_**Disclaimer: **None of it is mine; it's all JKR's._

* * *

**A Likely Story**

_**by: carpetfibers**_

**three**

* * *

She abhorred being late.

"Ten minutes, Ron," she reminded, calling up from the stair well. Her foot tapped, impatience pushing her stomach into unnecessary knots. It was just a family dinner, an informal affair, but arriving ten minutes late, seeing the entire table seated and prepared and the crowd left waiting-- she hated walking into that. So what if no one cared, if no one found the lateness rude or inconsiderate. _She_ cared, _she_ thought it rude and inconsiderate.

And really, that fact alone should make him care as well.

"Aren't you a tad under-dressed?"

Hermione whirled around, her stomach's anxiety doubling as she took in the neatly creased robes and carefully combed hair. "I thought this was just dinner."

"Fleur's parents owled this morning; they're treating us to dinner at the embassy." Ron frowned as he adjusted the length of his shirt sleeves, the tailoring just a smidgen off. Distantly, she realized it still bothered her, his recent fastidiousness. "I left a note for you on the counter."

"A note?" She stepped into the kitchen, spotting the piece of parchment pinned near the sink. She had missed it entirely, having skipped breakfast while finishing up her week-end read. "I never saw it, Ron-- this is what the mobile is for!"

His frown deepened, a crease forming over his brow. "There's a few minutes still; it'll be fine if we're a bit late."

She wanted to argue that no, it really _wouldn't_ be fine, but she needed those three minutes for a last second wardrobe change.

Seven minutes later-- and barely on time-- she realized that she was still woefully under-dressed. The cardigan she'd thrown on to match the pale blue paisley skirt screamed bargain purchase when compared to the silk and chiffon that greeted her on the other end of the Floo. Even Molly was done to the nines, her hair dotted with pearls and a matching string around her neck. Hermione stood there, worrying a run into her panty hose with the toe of her flats, and desperately wished she could will herself into illness.

Fleur planted a kiss on each of her cheeks. "'Ermione, you look lovely."

It said something to Fleur's acting skills that she sounded sincere. Hermione summoned a wan smile. "Thank you, Fleur. Your robes are gorgeous."

The compliment was rewarded with two dimples. Hermione teetered forward for the rest of the introductions, always as Ron's girlfriend, and yes, _the_ Hermione Granger from the War. Pleasantries exchanged, and once she could manage it without drawing too much attention, she grabbed Ron's elbow and pulled him aside. "I can't go out with you all like this."

He paused long enough to run his gaze up and down the once; she felt like punching him. "You're right. Maybe you can go back, change and then meet us for dessert?"

"Sounds good." She'd rather he had reassured her that her obviously inappropriate wear was just fine, but beggars and choosers and the like. "Ring me about ten minutes out, all right?"

"I'll make up an excuse for you then." He dropped a kiss on her forehead, and the tenderness warmed her. She was still smiling when he continued with some unnecessary advice. "Don't wear the red one, though."

Her fists curled around the Floo box, and she flashed an insincere smile. "Red dress it is then." She didn't stay long enough to let him argue otherwise.

~*~

George purposely planned to meet the party outside the embassy. He had also arranged to arrive with the requisite female adornment dangling from his elbow, but his mother had nipped that intention in the bud. Something or the other about not bringing tarts about to family gatherings; he had tuned out halfway through the conversation. His internal itinerary included the best approach to the dining table; he would stick to Charlie, and ensure that he was as far from his youngest brother as possible. Given a choice between sitting by Fleur and her parents and ending up next to a certain other female, he'd rather lose his appetite than his sanity.

Not that she was lunacy-inducing, merely an overwhelming distraction.

He scanned the group three times before confirming that Ron was definitely alone. It took four minutes of small talk before he sussed out that the missing female was feeling under the weather and would join them later on if she improved. If he believed his mother's insinuations, Hermione's sudden illness was nothing other than an unannounced pregnancy. George found another reason to be annoyed when Ron merely smiled at the suggestion.

Halfway through the first course, he decided that the insinuation, as much as he didn't believe it, nevertheless needed a definitive confirmation one way or the other. He refused to inspect why this was important to him. "I need to step out for a bit," he said to Charlie who, despite some obvious curiosity, nodded and agreed to cover.

"Be back before dessert," Charlie advised. George grinned and ducked behind a curtain to Apparate.

The townhome was every part as pretentious as it had been over the summer when George had been there to celebrate its purchase. Every eave and window was adorned with a neo-classical need to claim history that was undeserved. Despite his taste in dragonskin, George generally preferred utility over decoration, and he found the faux-buttresses nauseating in a new-money sort of way. Even if, admittedly, the latest generation of Weasleys were new money, they didn't have to show it off quite so much.

The wards allowed him past the front door and into the stairwell. Light drifted down from the second floor, tendrils of it escaping from under one of the doorways. He opened his mouth to call out and then thought better of it. Spontaneity's transient courage deserted him and left only nerves. He peered up the stairs for a moment more before releasing a muted sigh; reckless of him, really, to have done this. How was he to explain, without sounding ridiculous or pissed, that he had left in the middle of dinner to find out whether or not she was really pregnant?

And what if she was then? He could hardly perv on the girl pregnant with his future niece or nephew, could he?

No, he should leave. He went to do so, fingers picking at his collar and throat wishing for a drink, and then froze; a cloud-gatherer somewhere laughed at him.

"Ron? No, wait-- _George_?" Her words moved closer. "George, what on _earth--_ what are you doing here?"

He collected himself and turned around, a sheepish expression in place. "They said you were sick."

She paused on the final step, her expression hidden in shadow. "Sick? Oh right, well, not really. _Lumos_." Light filled the room, and George's mouth went uncomfortably dry. The dress was barely a dress at all; it clung to her skin, left her shoulders dangerously bare, and beheld a bold slit that showed entirely too much of her normally hidden legs. The color truly took it, though, a salacious red that hinted of femme fatales and lipstick rings.

He hated it instantly.

"If you'll take care of this clasp for me--" She pointed to a space on her back. "--I'll fix you something to drink."

His first impulse was to refuse, but he imagined making a hasty retreat at this point would only exacerbate things further. His fingers fumbled with the tiny silver clip as he unsuccessfully ignored the electric thrills that chased through his blood with each accidental touch of her skin.

"Thanks." He stared at the red gathered in her cheeks. "Plainly, I'm fine," she continued, ducking into the kitchen and hiding behind the refrigerator door. She emerged with a wine bottle and two chilled glasses. "I didn't realize that it was going to be a, you know, _fancy_ dinner. I stood out like a sore thumb."

He accepted the proffered glass and fought back a smile. Red wine cold? He supposed it could be worse; she could have put ice cubes in it. "Well, you'll match up now."

He heard her sigh. "Ron is going to have a fit; he doesn't like this dress ."

George nearly choked. "Why on earth not?" He hoped he didn't sound nearly as incredulous as he felt. What straight male in his right mind wouldn't want that sort of dress on the girl he liked? His reasons for disliking it had nothing to do with how it looked and everything with how it made him feel.

She grinned and leaned against the kitchen counter. "Thanks, but even you have to admit it's a bit ostentatious." Her lips turned serious. "I shouldn't try to provoke Ron like this, I know, but it feels good to rile things up every now and again."

He knew he would regret asking, but the distress in her lips pressed him to inquire. "Trouble in paradise?"

She hesitated, her gaze darting from the flushed liquid in her glass back to his hopefully neutral expression. "Not really, no. Except. . . it feels sometimes like I'm with two different people. Ron's changed so much since he landed that contract last year, and now he's so, so--" She faltered over the word. "I don't even know. But _then_ there was that night at the opera and it was like when we first graduated. There was spark and energy, and--"

Her face flooded with color. "Oh god, please just ignore that I said _any_ of that." Her hands pressed to her cheeks. "Please."

George laughed, a warmth in his chest swelling from equal parts male pride and fascination; he had known Hermione Granger to be many things, but cutely embarrassed was a first. It didn't hurt that he now had direct confirmation that his ministrations in the dark had been fully appreciated. "I'm sorry. I think I might be suffering from a temporary deafness hex. I missed everything after 'Not really.'"

She smiled crookedly and sipped from her glass, her lips soon stained dark from the wine. As he watched her fingers circle the rim of the glass, his good humor faded, dulled by the realization that he disliked the dress for yet other reasons. The gown did nothing to show off her finer assets, like the fly-away curl behind her ear or the self-conscious way her fingers tapped across the glass. It was vulgar, the dress, in its disguise, both artless and cunning in its complete camouflage. The gown was female and sex and desire, and she too was all of these things, but in it, she was no one special; she wasn't _her_.

"I think Ron's right; don't wear that dress." His tone hid nothing of the rough feeling behind his words, and he wondered what she would make of it, of him in her house and nothing but two brief steps separating them.

She stared, her brown eyes blank of expression, and then nodded. "I'll just need help again with the--" She turned her back to him, her fingers far from the silver clasp. His hand reached, nearing the unmarred stretch of skin, and then paused. She cocked her head backwards, eyes askance. "George?"

He smiled, unlinked the clasp, and stepped back. "Done." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, careful to keep his features in their usual fixture of carelessness. "Try not to be too late, Granger; dessert's supposed to be some sort of famed family secret."

He did not make it back for the fourth course or the fifth one, or any course after that; he found sanctuary in a nameless dive filled with smoke and anonymous music. It took five drinks before he could untuck the thought from the back of his mind and polish it into awareness. As he regarded the soap-stained glass, his fingers far too long for its breadth, he admitted to the truth: his recent. . . _fascination_ with his brother's girlfriend was no simple case of physical attraction.

It was far more, and far worse, than that.

It was--

He staggered up from his stool, muttering apologies as he stumbled toward the exit. He braced against the back alley wall, his feet avoiding the refuse that littered the asphalt. He sought relief, but the tepid night air offered only lethargy; no wind teased, no breeze tempted. Hesitantly, he raised his face toward the hazy glint of moon light that skittered out from behind the string of clouds. He wondered, as if he often did late at night and snockered, if the Muggles had it right and there was life after death, a heaven waiting for them. He wondered, as he always did, if his twin watched down from it, a not-so-silent observer of the mess he was slowly creating of his life.

And he wondered, for the first time, what Fred would say if he knew George had fallen in love with their younger brother's girlfriend.

"Merlin help me, Fred," he told the sky, "because I don't think I can."

**end three **

* * *

**_A/N: _**_So plainly, the Epilogue is being treated fast and loose. There are some pieces to the final chapters of DH, I'm keeping intact, such as Fred's death. There are others, as you'll discover later on, that I'm ignoring completely. I realize a good portion of fandom take no issue with these kinds of liberties, but I thought it best to place a bit warning in case this should bother you._

_I imagine, though, that if you're reading a George Weasley/Hermione Granger story, you're not exactly super-glued to your favorite 'ship._

_For those of you (ever so patient and faithful and far too generous few) who are following my other GW/HG story, Difference Always Matters, I realize it's been a long while since I've updated (again), but it is still being worked on. I promise, it will not be dropped; it will (one day) be finished._

_Thanks as always-- and look forward to next week!_


	4. four

_**Disclaimer: **__It's all JKR's__**.**_

**A Likely Story**

**four**

The mirror was silent for once.

She prodded the swollen skin beneath her eyes, her fingers tracing the dark smudges with morbid fascination. Combined with the pallor of her complexion, she felt it safe to admit the obvious: she looked awful. A week of the silent treatment had reduced her to near misery, and yet she wasn't willing to give in just yet. Furious had been a fair word for it at the beginning. Seven days later and her mood had reached a safer temperature of rolling boil.

It wasn't in Hermione's nature to hold a grudge, not for so long, and especially not with someone she cared for as much as she did for Ron. It was too draining, too exhausting, and when compared to the normal median level of good-humor she felt, the entirety of it affected her every action, her every word.

Even her students seemed to be suffering from it, their usual enthusiasm tempered by willful acts of sulking and back-talk.

But she couldn't just give in- not when she was in the right of it! For once, it hadn't been her moodiness, her fit of pique to provoke the argument; for once, it hadn't been her fault. She could hardly remember the last time she had been so firmly convinced of her righteousness, and if there was anything she was a sucker for, the smug satisfaction of such certainty was it. No one could blame her, not without appearing unfeeling or biased. Although-

She pursed her lips and swiveled in her chair, legs drawn to her chest in childish comfort. Her chin found rest over the bare skin of her knees. Ron had seemed to blame her; he had called her unreasonable and selfish. He didn't understand that it wasn't a case of her not wanting to have children- she did, very much so, but not now, and she certainly wasn't about to tolerate having Molly Weasley spread rumors of an impending pregnancy across the family lines. When Ginny had told her of the rumor, Hermione hadn't wanted to believe it. There was absolutely no way her Ron would allow that sort of misinformation to be spread.

_"I thought if you saw how much people liked the idea of us having children, then maybe you'd change your mind."_

Or so he had said. Her anger at the presumption, perfectly reasonable anger in her opinion, had been skipped over for yet more perverseness. _"Fine. If you don't want to give it a go, then let's try marriage first."_

It had been months since he had last proposed, and whatever recent finesse Ron might have gained in the public eye, decked out in fine robes and sporting box seats at the theater, did nothing to sweeten the thrice presented offer. She couldn't erase the double-image of impetuous decision-making and childish possessiveness he was wont to. She couldn't just ignore that despite the years since their school days, Ron had yet to truly grow up, not in the ways she needed.

The very fact that he didn't understand only underscored her concerns. She couldn't marry him. Not yet, not when he still thought the way he did. And no matter how rich he became, how popular he grew, or how neatly he managed to comb his hair- nothing would make her forget that when they stood before the Mirror of Erised on their last day at Hogwarts he saw nothing of a future with her.

The domesticity shown her on that day had surprised her and quelled some of that ambitious violence that edged her need to learn, to know- to improve. It was on that day that she decided to look elsewhere than Ministry promotions, and it was on that day that she discovered her happiness was built upon simplicity: a happy home, with a happy partner, and a happy family.

Ron saw fortune. He saw fame. He saw glory and gold and greatness. But he saw nothing of her, and Hermione couldn't marry someone who hadn't grown past that.

_"I can't marry you, Ron. You know that,_" she had told him, tears in her eyes and anger briefly forgotten. _"You still see marriage as some sort of checkbox on your list of achievements."_

He had left then, in a bang of green powder, and she had stared after him, torn between chasing and resisting. In the end, she had stayed, and in the five days since, he had not shared her bed or meals or said her name.

She missed him, and yet-

Yet-

When she found a package waiting for her on her balcony, its owl toting a note filled with crookedly neat letters and signed with a masculine G and W, she found the feeling weaker and her heart flutter with a foreign gladness.

II

George avoided the jarveys and the cooing mirrors; he bypassed the stack of five-second courage drops and faux-love potions. He made a direct line for his office in the back and, once there, threw three different locking charms at the door. He faced his office walls, their paint stretched thin from age and wear, and closed his eyes, willing away the panic.

He had resolved himself against her. Resolved himself against seeing her, or speaking with her, or engaging in any manner of correspondence with her beyond what he was already forced to endure. For nearly a month he had avoided her, depriving all five of his senses from their ever-growing liking of her scent and form, her laughter, and her remembered taste and skin. He was an island, a fortress, and he took refuge in his self-imposed exile.

But then he sent that package on an impulsive, masochistic whim. The patent for his new self-inking quills had been approved. The quills with their shorter lengths and their fatter widths were perfect for smaller hands, and the moment he held the manufacturing authorization in his hand, he had thought of her and her students. The owl was stationed nearby conveniently, and the whole of it took him no more than three minutes.

And such a wretched, punitive three minutes they had been!

But now she had come, to thank him and offer him lunch. She arrived in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair loose and cheeks pinked. She smiled too widely and her voice was all friendliness, a carelessness of hers wrought from loneliness. George could not refuse her, not when she came as she did, artless and thoughtless and hurtfully innocent in her ignorance.

It was cruel to be near her, but crueler still to draw away.

He rested his forehead against the chipped paint; Fred had intended to fix the room up, eventually, once things were calm again. He had planned on using the room as an opportunity to look into crafting gag household items, such as spontaneously shrinking sofas and whispering wallpaper. But Fred had died, and George hadn't the will or desire to attempt to pick up those stray ideas and make them his own. The room's blatant decay soothed him, oddly enough, and he took strength from it now. Relishing the roughness against his skin and the bleak lighting, he forced his breathing to calm and his blood to still.

He could share a simple meal with her, a half hour of dedicated conversation and not betray himself. She looked too much the part of her school days, and he could return himself to that time, to before he ever noticed her as female or woman or touchable.

He could. He would.

She waited, standing awkwardly by the register, her initial smile twisted by nervousness. "I should have checked before dropping in. I'm sorry, George, you're busy, aren't you? We can do this another time."

George was tempted to take the offer, but she pulled at her thumb and her sneaker was scuffed. "It's fine. The shop's been slow today, anyway, and I'm starving."

Her smile brightened. "Good."

She took him to a small eatery a few streets over, whose outdoor tables were individually charmed to cool in the summer and warm in the winter. She ordered a lemonade and a salad she barely picked at; he judged midday late enough for a pint, and the club sandwich arrived with decorated toothpicks. He balanced one between his fingers as he watched her, her mouth tensed with a hesitance he longed to brush away. She'd been fighting with his brother, George knew, his spare room having housed Ron for nearly a handful of nights.

"How did the quills work out?" he finally asked, his plate emptied and his pint re-filled.

Her untouched salad was pushed aside. "Oh the kids loved them! They were so frustrated every time we tried practicing writing with normal ones. Thank you again, it was really thoughtful of you to send them to me."

He noticed she had a habit of running her hands along the hem of her t-shirt as she spoke, her fingers playing with the threads there. He remembered the downy softness of her skin against his lips, her shoulders taut and smooth on his palms. "I needed a test group; a classroom full of kids seemed ideal."

The t-shirt was a faded green, worn thin from repeated washings. Tiny silver studs decorated her lobes and her fingers, so nervous around him, twisted them back and forth. "They're already asking for more colors. Green and purple seem to be the most popular requests."

George stared, not caring that his observation was blatant. It struck him, then, that her seeking him out was not at all ordinary or circumspect. Hermione Granger did not openly solicit his company, packages of quills or not. She had barely tolerated him since Hogwarts, and while she had been kind after Fred's death, he was consigned with none of the warmth or care he'd seen her lavish on those she called friends. "Why did you ask me out with you, Hermione?"

The fidgeting stopped. "To thank you. For the quills." She leaned forward, the thin cotton of her shirt stretching tight against the swell of her breasts, the slim lining of her bra. His eyes skimmed the outline, obvious with their perusal. He took a pained delight in her embarrassment as she withdrew, drawing in on herself. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" he baited.

Her lips turned unhappily, but she made no movement as if to leave. "You know what I mean. Like _that_. I don't like it-"

"You're a bad liar." George set down his empty glass, the liquid courage buffering his words. "You knew that I had been avoiding you. You didn't know why, maybe not directly, but you knew it all the same. You purposely sought me out."

Hurt shot across her features, her eyes widening and skirting away from his gaze. He understood belatedly that he had misjudged the depth of her perception. "George, I didn't think you were avoiding me; you never tried to approach me before. I thought the gift was an attempt at friendship, maybe. That you had finally stopped finding me so annoying."

Her chair protested as she pushed back from the table, the chime of dropped coins following closely behind. She paused between chair and coin, and smiled, the curve forced and pained. "I see now I was wrong. Thank you again for the quills."

She reached the nearest cross-alley before George caught up to her, his hand hard and tight around her wrist as he whirled her around. She avoided his eyes, but the tears were obvious. Self-loathing overtook him. "_Merlin_, don't look like that! I don't find you annoying, Hermione. I never found you annoying-" The look she gave him spelled disbelief. He qualified. "Fine, not since Hogwarts at least. Not for a long time now."

She tugged with her arm. "Would you let go of me please?" His fingers loosened instantly, and ashamed, he watched as she rubbed at her wrist.

"Hermione, I'm sor-"

She motioned with her hand. "Don't apologize, please. I misunderstood, so it's my mistake. We're different sorts of people, and just because I date your brother doesn't mean we have to be friends." She increased the space between them and flaunted another of her forced smiles. "Besides, I haven't really changed all that much since school. Don't sell me short- I'm probably just as annoying now as I ever was."

Her attempt at levity grated, least of all because she was right; she was annoying, but not in any of the ways her tone intimated. "That's hardly a decision you get to make on your own. What if I want to be friends?"

"Do you?" For once, her voice gave away nothing of what she meant, or hoped, or expected.

He opened his mouth to lie, to tell her that yes, he wanted to be friends- chums, good ol' pals and not something entirely different, something of a far deeper evolution than mere friendship- and instead, his lips betrayed him. "No. Not friends."

She closed her eyes briefly and exhaled slowly. The smile she managed was far more natural, and an inexplicable sting of loss tore through him. "Good then. If not friends, at least we're honest." She pulled out her wand from her pocket and gestured toward the north. "I'll go first then."

He watched as she stepped away, her back now foremost to his gaze. "Hermione-"

But she interrupted, that same smile a-fixed. "It's all right, George. Not friends, but, maybe, someday family."

Her Apparation gave no sound, and George had never hated silence more.

**end four**


	5. five

_**Disclaimer: **Not mine. All JKR's._

_

* * *

_

**A Likely Story**

**_by: carpetfibers_**

**_

* * *

_four_  
_**

The lack of space comforted her in the mornings: The unpacked boxes piled in her kitchen, the full fridge with nothing to eat, the bed corner that skinned her knees upon each awakening. She relished the squeeze out the front door and the fight to wiggle into her shower. Her bedroom was her dining room and living room and all other rooms; the crawlspace outside her one window fit a large cat and a miserable plant. She would wake, shower, dress, and eat, and no more than eight steps separated the acts.

Hermione loved her tiny flat.

Until the night.

And then the closeness filled her with dread. Her lamp darkened, and the room gained shadows, layered with portent and memories she never revisited, never consciously. Her pillows and blankets offered no respite from the tight emptiness of the space. She longed for the sound of another's breathing, the shuffle of bedclothes, and the groan of a shifted mattress. Silence stung in the lonely air.

Since she was eleven years old, her nights had been spent drowning in the noise of another. Teeth grinding, muffled sighs, the shifting of blankets and spare mumbles of disjointed words- how these sounds had plagued her with sleeplessness and shadowed eyes for months. And now, she could not sleep without it.

She found reasons to delay dismissing her class; reasons to linger over coffee with her co-workers; reasons to miss her stop on the Underground. Anything to draw out the eventual return to her empty flat with its unpacked boxes and unadorned walls, unmade bed and fridge filled with foods she had no appetite to touch. She could have waited to move out, waited to push the idea of separation on Ron. But that box with its ring, the stone audaciously large and so unsuited to her hand, glared at her, declared her unfeeling and cruel. And she had to leave.

The flat was chosen for its convenience and availability. The lease was month-to-month, an agreement she felt suitable because surely the separation was only temporary. She needed to take stock in her life, and Ron needed to grow without her there to-

"_You're stifling me- you won't move beyond the past."_

The words had made her chest constrict. How calmly he had spoken; how defeated his voice had sounded.

"_We're not teenagers anymore, Hermione. We've grown up and I can't fit that mold you have of me."_

Ironic how he felt the very things she had accused him of silently for months. Ironic how she could have missed that she was guilty of the same charges.

"_I know you love me. And I love you. But you have to love the me _now_, not just the me from back then."_

She had wanted to deny it at the time, rebel against the truth he told her. But no amount of self-delusion could refute the affection and regret reflected in the fold of his mouth, the unhappy curve of his lips. And so she had slept on it, and in the morning, left. Hermione, for the first time in so very, very long, was on her own. No childhood bedroom with parents down the hall, no dormroom filled with girls and cheerful laughter, no bed shared with a warm body.

And she was lonely.

She had written him, that morning when she packed her things and left. A letter of many drafts that finally became a few lines. "_You're right. I'll leave and think it over. But don't doubt it- you're the only person I've ever loved. I'll miss you."_ She had waited for the reply for a week, believing that it would come. The week ended, a second passed, and then there was the Witch Weekly issue touting _Mr. Ronald Weasley: New Eligible_ on its front page.

Ginny had owled her immediately. Molly had shown up at Hermione's work, carrying a pie and half an hour's worth of tears. Harry had bought her a drink and let her get pissed enough to not care about the empty flat filled with boxes and now disliked things. Her month-to-month lease began to look permanent, and eventually, after a month of space and thought and consideration, circumstance had brought her face-to-face with Ron.

He had smiled, genuinely pleased to see her, and her heart, gladdened by his presence, nevertheless did not skip or jump or shout or throb. A comfortable warmth soaked her, and over a civil lunch, she realized that while she was unhappy in her tiny flat with a half-life of possessions, she was not as unhappy as she had been with him.

He had kissed her cheek after taking the check, touched her hand, and promised that he still loved her. That he would always love her. She had nodded, and then, when he had left, finished her glass of water, hiding her own tears behind her napkin and her strongest _notice-me-not_ charm. When her tears had dried and her glass refilled twice, she opened the paper picked up that morning and found the circled classified. One call and two faxes later, and she had a new flat.

One with proper windows, a tub for soaking, and a fireplace for winter.

She was halfway through her third box of books when the bell rang. With her cheek smudged by dust, her hair disheveled, and her eyes bright, she opened the door.

The same red hair, only darker. The same blue eyes, only lighter. A different face and different mouth. Stubborn chin and smooth forehead. Freckles along the collarbone and a jaw level with her forehead. George Weasley smiled, the lips not quite filling the gesture.

"Hallo neighbor," he said.

Her heart- it kicked and buckled, and this time, she did not ignore it.

* * *

**II**

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**

"You're not eating." The accusation was tempered with incredulity which made the scolding all the more grating.

"I know, funny thing, right? I have this tendency to not eat when I'm not hungry." George drained half of his mug of coffee, not caring that it scalded his tongue and left his throat parched.

Ron frowned, not pleased by the sarcasm. "You should at least try it. This is a nice place."

It _was _a nice place, and like most nice places Ron carted him off to of late, it cost four times more than he'd like to spend on lunch. George enjoyed finery as much as the next person, but spending the equivalent of his monthly rent on a plate that consisted of three limps pieces of asparagus and a chilled steak the size of his finger was hardly his idea of money well spent. But Ron had adopted the affluent lifestyle and liked to style himself as a _gentleman_. For whatever reason, this meant constant corrections on the type of fork to use and how to place one's napkin on the table. It was like having another Percy, only one slightly more likable.

But choice in silverware was hardly the real reason for his annoyance. Lunchtime brother-bonding had formerly been a once a month affair. Now it was once a week, sometimes twice if Ron ambushed him on his way home from the shop. Small talk littered the first half of the meal, but by the time coffee was offered and the dessert menu mentioned, the real reason for the meeting was brought to subject.

"Hermione must be busy with the end of the school term. You probably never see her." The affected nonchalance was pathetic really, especially since Ron liked to combine it with a deep interest in his napkin.

"You're right, I don't." George wasn't about to share the truth of it, that he found a reason to run into her nearly every day. Supposedly chance encounters on the lift, surprise meetings at the corner shop, the odd measurement of sugar needed- he'd even bothered her once claiming to need female advice on a potential new product. "We might live in the same building, but that hardly makes us best pals."

Ron slumped, a movement limited only to his shoulders. Lines creased across his forehead, and when he abandoned his napkin for eye contact, George knew that all attempts at subterfuge were going to the wayside. "I miss her."

George motioned to the waiter for a refill; one would think a high class place might be a bit more prompt on minding the beverages. Ron continued, unbothered by the lack of response. "I thought, if I gave her some space, made it seem like I had moved on, that she would come back to me. Realize what she was missing and all."

The relatively new formality with which Ron now typically spoke disappeared as he nursed his hurts over an untouched mille feuille. "Instead, she up and vanishes. Cool as can be, she shows up and gets the rest of her things, clears out her part of the Gringotts account, and puts in a separation for her mobile from our plan. Cold and neat."

"Down right arctic," George agreed, his tone neutral. He made no mention of the fact that Hermione's smile lacked its typical brightness, and provoking her laughter took literal hours of planning and forethought on his part.

"Okay, so perhaps giving that interview was premature, but everyone knows nothing gets a girl going more than a bit of competition. She didn't even get angry." The pastry lost its iced topping as Ron ran a discouraged finger over the pastry shell. "I saw her Tuesday, in Diagon. She was reading outside of Fortesque's."

George had seen her, too. Watched as she neglected her ice cream, as her nose wrinkled over turned pages. For three hours she had sat in the sun, reading, oblivious to the clamoring children seeking treats from inside, or the parents taking respite in a momentary break. Twice she had been approached by some one claiming recognition. He had watched how she visibly recoiled, as if slapped, from each interruption, a split second of irritation tightening her expression and then it laxed into its typical good will.

When she had left, he had dismissed the two clerks, claiming a slow day, and manufactured a bumping of shoulders near the Apparation point. They stopped for curry, and he learned that she loved the spices but couldn't handle the heat. She ate with tentative bites, enjoying the taste tempered by hand-waving winces.

"Tell me what to do. You're good at this- with _them_." Ron implored, fork engaged in an active decimation of the remainders of the ruined pastry.

George didn't bother to correct his brother's estimation of his male prowess with the female kind. He didn't mention that none of his relationships lasted beyond a week-end. That his only forays into the deeper sort of emotions had been those of his early adolescence, when a smile from a pretty girl had shuttered him into ecstatic muteness, from those days before he learned to armor himself with humor and jokes and the easiness of the superficial.

The question had tickled at him for over a month. He hadn't asked it, hadn't pressed it, but now the question begged for utterance. George leaned forward, hands clenched beneath the table. "Why'd you do it then? Why suggest a break if you didn't want one?"

He didn't finish with the real question: _Why chance losing her at all?_

His brother pushed aside his plate, earnest and vulnerable in the sudden honesty. "You wouldn't get it, George, but she doesn't see me anymore. I'm there, and she talks to me, but what she's seeing- who she's talking to- it's not me. When we're-" Ron paused, lowering his tone, "in _bed_, there's no connection. We're together, but there's nothing. Merlin, George. . ."

He ran a hand over his cropped hair, reduced to age seven again with the gesture. "We used to be good together. Somehow it all turned to rubbish."

George wanted to reassure his brother, offer up one of those vague sentiments about valleys and mountains, pitfalls and triumphs. But he also wanted for himself, and after years of sharing everything with first his twin and then his family, was it so very wrong of him to be selfish? This once?

"Give it time," he said at last. _Enough time that she no longer misses you. So that she no longer scours the paper looking for your picture, your latest victory or purchase. Enough time so that she might start to look elsewhere. To someone else. To me. _"Just give her time."

Ron nodded, his expression torn but accepting. George felt the brief pang of guilt; his younger brother would never think him capable of such calculation. He wondered, for a second, what Ron's reaction would be if he confessed to his true motives?

"_I see her everyday, Ronnikins. I find excuses to run into her, to be near her. I pretend to be sympathetic when she admits to missing you. I've touched her three times in the past month, and I noticed how she trembles each time. How she shivers. I plan on tricking her into choosing me. I'll make her forget about loving you."_

George couldn't just dismiss what had happened so many weeks earlier, when Hermione had pressed him for friendship. He felt the heaviness of that encounter lingering between them, swirling behind their words and tailoring their actions. She made no mention of it, and he kept with the pretense. But he knew she wondered, and half of him hoped she guessed the truth.

"All right then. Give her time it is then."

And George suffered his gladness in silence.

* * *

**end five**


End file.
